New Year's Eve
by HB's Favourite
Summary: The staff of Cackle's Academy celebrate the coming of 2011.
1. Chapter 1

This is dedicated to the Twitter crowd. Happy New Year, #cacklesbitches!

1

Constance sat with hunched shoulders, bent over papers in the staffroom as the light-hearted chatter and the bustle of arms being slipped through coats and robes sounded behind her. She scrawled notes on the fourth year potions essays, each "constructive" comment becoming more strangled with bitterness as her thoughts were distracted by the scraps of trivial conversation over her shoulder.

'...nice way to see in the New Year...'

'...looking forward to a glass or two of wine...'

'...glass? I'm having at _least_ two bottles!'

Constance gritted her teeth. Somehow, she had the feeling that whether or not she wanted to participate in events, she would be relied upon to put in a cameo appearance later that evening to escort a slurring Miss Bat back from the Hare & Hounds, the chanting teacher having humiliated herself as she always did when within mere sniffing distance of alcohol.

'Are you sure you won't join us, Constance?' Miss Cackle asked kindly, as the other teachers filed out of the staffroom. Constance didn't look up from her marking as she gave her reply.

'No thank you, Miss Cackle. It may be the end of 2010, but that I do not see that as an excuse for the kind of drunken debauchery that will bring the Academy's name into ill repute.'

She hovered her quill over Ethel Hallow's parchment (the one upon which she had made the least scathing remarks), and waited for Amelia to try to persuade her further. She didn't. Constance contemplated that the headmistress was probably comparing her to a young Ebeneezer Scrooge. All work and no play...

'Very well. You know where we are if you change your mind. '

And with that, the staffroom door clicked shut behind Miss Cackle's retreating back.

Constance sighed and replaced the candle which was burning out at the corner of the desk.

x

'Come on, ladies!' boomed Mr Blossom's voice over the relentless thud of music that emanated from the village pub's jukebox. 'Ol' Terry Root and me 'ave got a pool tournament about to start, and there's darts later. An' if Sharon the Landlady allows it, there'll be a bit o' karaoke before the night's done! Drilly,' he beamed at the gym mistress as she slung her waterproof over a barstool and took a glass brimming with Chardonnay from Davina's hands, 'Bet your partial to a bit of Abba, aren't you?'

'I'll do it after a few more of these,' she mouthed over the music. 'And if you play your cards right,' she inclined a nod towards Miss Cackle who was chatting animatedly to the landlord, 'Amelia'll give you a rendition of Eva Cassidy!'

x

'Oh! Hello there, Miss Hardbroom.' Constance jumped as the door crashed open and Miss Lamplighter swept in, bringing with her a gust of cold evening air and the scent of the outdoors. 'Have they already gone to the pub?'

Constance got quickly to her feet, feeling her cheeks flush as she did so and grateful for the dim light of the staffroom.

'I, er, I – '

'Why aren't you there too? Not working too hard, I hope?' Miss Lamplighter breezed over, cocking her head to scan the papers on the deputy headmistress's desk. Constance hastened to gather them up in an attempt to look thoroughly harassed. She hadn't seen Lynne since Art Week the previous summer; and she was loath to admit even to herself that the woman had invaded her thoughts on more than a handful of occasions since...

There was a heavy silence as Lynn awaited an answer which wasn't forthcoming. Sensing that her timing was perhaps misjudged, Miss Lamplighter made for the door.

'Well, if you fancy a drink later we'll be there till they throw us out.'

Constance opened her mouth to speak as the door closed with a flourish.

Strangely enough, she felt a sudden inclination to accompany the rest of the staff in seeing in the New Year.

x

'Who the bloody hell invited _them_?' Imogen muttered to Davina, as the gym mistress chalked the tip of her pool cue and blew the excess away with a brisk puff.

'God knows,' replied the chanting teacher, scowling towards the door where Chief Wizard Helibore, Algernon Rowan-Webb and Benjamin Greengage were wandering in, nodding cordially at the suspicious locals and squinting towards the bar pumps.

'Pint of Merlin's Staff for me, please,' Imogen heard Helibore declare. 'And two pints of Moon n' Stars for my companions here! Ah, the charming Miss Cackle and her flock!' Imogen rolled her eyes and bent down so that she was eye-level with the pool table. 'May we join you in a little competition?'

Imogen lined her cue towards the triangle of balls Davina had arranged near the far end and took a forceful shot, sending them scattering about the tabletop.

'We were just getting some practice in, I think,' came the Headmistress's diplomatic tones. 'Our caretaker, Mr Blossom, has arranged a charity match against some of the local allotment growers. Winnings go to the charity of our choice.'

'Highly commendable, dear lady!' came the Cheif Wizard's reply. Imogen potted her third red as she heard him mutter aside: 'It would seem your young gym mistress has her uses after all...'

Imogen directed an outraged gaze towards Miss Bat, who shook her head with all the avid imploration of peacekeeper. It wasn't enough to deter the gym mistress's following retort.

'Come one then, Bertie!' she jibed, 'Let's see if _you_ have _your_ uses. Pot as many yellows within five minutes and you can have a hundred quid to repair the reputation of Camelot College!'

x

Constance turned at her desk and looked out of the window. A full moon. A rainless sky. A perfect evening. Miss Lamplighter flickered through her mind. _Damned woman!_ Getting to her feet, she noticed the discarded glasses of wine on the staffroom table. She took a swig from one. And another. Rijoca Reserva, she decided, without the need to even consult the bottle. Another glug. Just enough to light her courage and warm her soul.

Grabbing her cloak from the back of her chair, she slid it over her shoulders and tossed the hood over her head.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for reading so far, and for the reviews! The finale will be up on New Year's Eve.

2

'Ooh, I _do_ apologise!' gushed Davina falsely, as she sashayed over from the bar, swinging a hip so that it collided perfectly with the poised cue and sent Benjamin Greengage's cueball wobbling skew-whiff across the table. 'Did I spoil your shot? What a pity... Amelia, take the drinks, will you? I think it's my go.'

Squaring up to his assaultress, Benjamin made a pretty pathetic specimen, despite towering bulkily over the petite form of Davina. The chanting mistress ignored his jibbering protestations and seized the cue, aligning her shot and striking the cueball with a swift movement.

'Now see here!' Hellibore clambered to his feet, annoyed that none of the witches was listening to him. 'You can't just carry on – we were fouled! I say we get a free shot for your little stunt, Batty!'

Davina saw red and lurched towards the Chief Wizard.

'Don't you call me Batty, you crusty old windbag!' she grabbed the cue and pointed it menacingly at Hellibore's nether-regions. The Chief Wizard drew in a sharp breath and backed up against the wall, whilst Imogen and Amelia abandoned their drinks and flew over to foil Davina's attack.

'_I_ _tripped!_' shrilled Davina, fighting off her colleagues and glancing between the two of them. 'You both saw it, didn't you?'

'Well of _course_ they're going to agree with _you!_' said Hellibore, his voice a few octaves higher than usual has he kept his gaze on the dangerous positioning of the cue.

Imogen stifled a laugh, and Amelia shot Hellibore an expression that suggested it might be better for all concerned if he let Miss Bat off on this particular technicality; unless, of course, he had a peculiar hankering to find himself immasculated in time for the New Year.

'Very well.' He growled, re-arranging himself with a shrug and a tug of his cloak. His expression withered further as he glanced down to the table, noticing that it was rather more densely populated with his yellow balls than it was with Team Cackle's red ones...

x

'_Yesss!_' Amelia and Imogen bounced up and down as Davina's last remaining red punched a couple of yellows out of its path and clattered into a corner pocket.

'In your FACE, Mr Helliboring!' announced Davina, pole-dancing around her cue as the Chief Wizard grudgingly counted his cash into Frank's waiting palm. Amelia, on her fourth sherry, couldn't suppress her chuckles as it occurred to her how lucky she was to have such an uninhibited and entertaining friend.

The door opened and there was a universal shiver from the customers near it as Miss Lamplighter forced it shut against the cold blast of air.

'_Hiii!_' called Imogen, making over to her friend as they met in an embrace. 'Glad you made it. We were just bitch-slapping the wizards at their own game!'

Hellibore took a vengeful slurp of ale, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and took up the cue, brandishing it like a staff.

'Cheats!' he spat, 'I demand a rematch!'

x

Lynne and Imogen, armed with wine, sidled into the seats opposite Mrs Cosie and Mrs Tapioca, who were discussing their respective Christmas lunches. Lynne, satisfied that they were both engrossed in the travesty of Aunt Bessie's when compared to good old-fashioned home cooking, leant close to Imogen's ear.

'I popped by the Academy on my way up in case you were still there,' she whispered. 'Poor Miss Hardbroom's all on her own. Didn't you invite her?'

Imogen sighed, wistfully. 'We did ask her. But you know what she's like. The rest of us met up at the Academy because it's the most central point for us all to get together during the holidays, so I wasn't expecting to see her at all. But it was clear she hadn't left the place since the end of term.'

Lynne looked horrified.

'You mean she stays there alone?'

Imogen shrugged.

'She's got a house in London, I think. But she seems to feel more at home in the castle. Perhaps ghosts and ghouls are more her sort of company!'

Imogen's rippling of her fingers to suggest an ethereal presence was lost on Lynne, whose gaze was transfixed somewhere in her wine.

'But... rattling around in that draughty old place...?'

'She's not like us, you know.' Imogen flopped back in her seat, becoming slightly irked with Lynne's preoccupation. Thoughtfulness was wasted on Constance Hardbroom – she wouldn't appreciate it, and would probably complain of being "patronised", as she often did when Imogen showed her any concern. 'I don't think it bothers her. Who knows – perhaps it's in the nature of witches to enjoy solitude. I mean, look at this lot.' Their eyes trailed to the bar, where Amelia and Lavinia were slapping their palms on it and chanting "Down in one!" over and over as Algernon guzzled a pint of Fosters, and Davina was celebrating her second pool victory of the evening by pretending to swim on the table. 'All I can say is I hope the long-term effect of their company's not contagious...'

Imogen's and Lynne's eyes met, and they burst into simultaneous laughter.

'I suppose I see your point,' grinned Lynne. 'They're not quite like us, are they?'

Somewhere amidst the hilarity, Miss Bat had made her way over to the table, emptying someone's discarded whiskey into her Guinness as she went.

'I was just saying to Lynne - we did _try_ to get Constance to put in an appearance tonight, didn't we...'

'Pah!' shrilled Davina, tossing the concoction down her throat and shaking her head with an embittered grimace. 'That old stick in the mud? You wouldn't catch her in a place like this if her life depended on it. Anyway, sod her!' She clapped her hands briskly to get Mrs Cosie's and Mrs Tapioca's attention. 'Step to it, girls - we've got a darts match to win!'

x

At a seemingly empty table near the door, Constance Hardbroom sat invisibly observing the festivities. She raised her spellcasting fingers as one of the locals approached, intensifying the magical barrier that not only protected her locality but, upon contact by a non-magician, caused them to change their minds and seek a table elsewhere.

And she couldn't quite resist sending a little wave of magic to Lynne, who was now standing slightly apart from the Cackle's crowd, sipping her wine as they prepared for the darts tournament. Turning round as though she'd just been tapped on the shoulder by an invisible entity, Lynne's curious eyes searched the air, before she shook her head with a vague, confused smile and returned her attention to her companions.

Inclining her conjured glass of wine into the air, Constance's face brightened into a near-smile as she watched her colleagues enjoying themselves, completely oblivious to her presence.

'To your good health, ladies.'


	3. Chapter 3

OK – so this isn't the "finale" after all but I did promise another instalment on New Year's Eve, and for once I've kept to my word. I will submit the fourth and final chapter over the next couple of days. Thanks to those who've read, reviewed and faved so far! And of course a healthy, happy, safe and prosperous 2011 to you all.

3

Fortunately, all-out war did not ensue between Team Cackle's and the wizards for the remainder of New Year's Eve. Although Hellibore took it upon himself to sulk after the pool fiasco, they decided to make amends by teaming up against the locals in Mr Blossom's charity darts match. (There was of course the small matter of Mrs Tapioca getting herself barred after she punched Mr Root in the face, sending him crashing into a table of elderly yokels as the blood poured from his broken nose: but he _had_ called her a "lard-arsed Italian pasta mama" after she'd quite accidentally lost her footing and landed on him like a sack of pumpkins, stabbing him in the leg with the sharp end of her dart. The staff, however, came to the unanimous agreement that the less said about the whole affair, the better.)

One slight hitch in Miss Hardbroom's plan came about when, as she checked the time on the wall and noted that in three seconds precisely, the invisibility spell would come to its natural conclusion, who should make their flamboyant entry into the hostelry but none other than Icy Stevens, Sorcery FM (veteran) radio DJ and lethario extraordinaire.

'That slimy buffoon!' hissed Constance under her breath, mentally uttering the words of the spell to extend her invisibility. She couldn't help but smirk at the disappointment Icy was greeted with from the other staff members – the brief attempts by Davina and Amelia to hide behind their own hands, and the roll of the eyes from Imogen. Unfazed by the chilly reception, Icy made a beeline for Miss Lamplighter, who was leaning against the bar, sipping from the same glass of wine she'd had since he arrived.

'Hi there,' he purred in his best radio tones. 'And what's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?'

Constance felt the flesh of her spine tingle with rage.

Lynne, too polite to give him the sort of curt brush-off Constance would positively relish, spluttered on her drink and set it aside on the bar, offering him a friendly half-smile and reaching out to shake his hand.

'I don't believe we've met,' she said, starting over.

'Icy Stevens!' the words carried the tone of indignation that said "_What do you mean, you don't know who I am?_" Lynne smiled as though expecting him to continue. There was a moment of awkwardness. _Lynne one, Icy – nil_, thought the potions mistress.

'Well – er – I'm a radio DJ. Sorcery FM. I run The Witchy Hour,' As he waited (rather arrogantly, Constance thought) for the penny to drop, Lynne showed vague comprehension. 'And I'm embarking on Superwitch Challenge next summer. Well,' here, he let out a burst of sardonic laughter. 'That is if Miss Hardbroom will have me.'

_Cheek!_

'Miss Hardbroom?' Lynne seemed instantly more interested in the man standing next to her, and Constance couldn't suppress the pleasant flutter in her stomach. 'You mean the Deputy Headmistress of Cackle's Academy?'

'The very same,' said Icy, draining his whiskey and sliding his glass towards the landlord with a nod. 'She really is quite something.' His gaze was dreamily on the middle-distance as he spoke.

'Yes,' replied Lynne, her eyes twinkling into her wine. 'She is, isn't she?'

Constance had stopped breathing.

'How do you know her?' asked Icy, eventually.

'Oh, I taught briefly at the school – only a week in the summer. They don't have an art teacher, you see – and every year they get a local artist to encourage the girls to challenge any creative streak they might have, so I was drafted in to...'

Icy wasn't listening. Lynne watched him for a moment, her eyes following his behind the bar. Behind the rows to bottles of alcohol was a mirror running the length of the bar. Icy was looking at his own reflection between the Jack Daniels and the Glenfiddich, pouting Zoolander-style and turning slightly to observe each angle of his face.

_What an absolute creep! _thought Lynne.

Then, the strangest thing happened. Lynne suddenly felt as though something had clamped on to her hand, and quicker than she could hoist it before her wide, bemused eyes, she was being dragged so quickly across the pub that the other customers, embroiled in chatter and putting their names down for the karaoke, barely seemed to notice. Before she was really aware of what was happening, Lynne was being thrust into the Snug and the velvet curtain was pulled across. She glanced around for a moment, petrified. It was a tiny, oak-panelled alcove of a room that was just big enough for the table and six chairs surrounding it.

'I'm sorry I had to do that,' said Constance, appearing at once and looking a little flustered herself. 'The man really is such an odious cretin! I couldn't have you subjected to his tedious company for a mere second longer.'

Lynne, catching her breath, stared unblinkingly at the potions mistress, who was now peering around the curtain before giving a satisfied nod that nobody had witnessed their escape.

'Is he still there?' asked Lynne, conspiratorially.

'Of course. But he hasn't noticed your departure. He still seems to be admiring himself in the mirror like a brainless budgerigar.'

Lynne laughed, her breathing eventually returning to its normal pace. She stared at Constance for a moment, feeling self-conscious in her cords and casual jacket. Her mousy hair escaped in flyaway tendrils from the clip that kept most of it pinned to the back of her head, and she should _definitely_ have cleaned her boots before she came out... Whilst there, in front of her, was the immaculate figure of Constance Hardbroom, the woman she had been so fascinated by when Miss Cackle had listed the potential pitfalls of her previous visit... "..._she's __a traditionalist, a disciplinarian – and most certainly not one for the "frivolous" displays of the Tate Modern!_". Lynne had chuckled to herself. She'd like to meet this Constance Hardbroom, to see if she couldn't work a little magic of her own and get her to release the artist within. Then there had been the maidenhead; the sketch that Lynne had _known_ Constance couldn't possibly have drawn within the short time between her leaving the hall and returning to her classroom; but it had touched Lynne so deeply to think this stone-cold woman – this iron lady who was by no means for turning – had done something to impress _her, _the non-witch who had felt totally out of her depth amongst some of the most fascinating people she would ever meet...

Lynne's attention switched abruptly to the present, and to Miss Hardbroom, who was staring at her as though she'd been studying her for several seconds. She felt her stomach lurch as it crossed her mind that she might be able to read thoughts... _Well_, she thought, if you can, _then what am I thinking now?_

Either by mind-reading or some astronomical coincidence, Constance took a step closer, placing her fingers either side of Lynne's jaw, watching her for a moment before closing the gap between them further. _Oh God_, thought Lynne, her own fingers fumbling for the wall behind her. _I really think I'm going to faint_...

x

TBC!


End file.
